Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

To honor his memory—or perhaps to redeem his memory—she would not rest until this particular evil was stamped out.

  A loud banging on the front door jolted her out of her brooding. Spinning around, she shot out of the room—

  And hit up against Wrexford.

  “Shhhh,” he commanded in a low whisper, hooking an arm around her waist and thrusting her none too gently against the side of her desk. He had a pistol in his other hand and was already looking to the shadowed entryway. “Go back where you came from, and bolt the door.”

  A grim calmness had hold of his features. Without waiting for answer, he moved in a blur of quick panther-like strides.

  Be damned with retreating, thought Charlotte, fumbling in her desk drawer for her own little weapon. Steadying her hands with a gulp of air, she cocked the hammer and took up position at the inner doorway.

  The hammering came again.

  Her heartbeat kicked up another notch. Wrexford remained silent as stone.

  “Mrs. Sloane?” The gruff hail had a distinct Scottish burr to it. “It’s Henning. Forgive me for stopping by unannounced, but I’ve found something that might interest you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Wrexford slung the bolt back, admitting the surgeon, then relocked the door.

  “I’m pleased to see you’re taking the threat of trouble seriously, lassie,” said Henning, eying her pocket pistol. “But for now, you may put your weapon aside.”

  Stepping back a pace, Charlotte eased the hammer down.

  “You, too, laddie,” quipped the surgeon. “I’d prefer not to have to dig a bullet out of my bum.”

  “I doubt a ball of lead could penetrate your ornery hide,” replied the earl, his tone a little testy. The sudden interruption had reinforced just how alone and vulnerable Charlotte was.

  Ignoring the comment, Henning took off his hat and combed his fingers through his untidy hair. “The coffeehouse on Red Lion Square is all abuzz with speculation about your latest print,” he said without preamble to Charlotte. “To hint that there’s such rot beneath the polished veneer of the aristocracy is a very provocative charge.”

  “It was meant to be,” she answered.

  “Well, I do hope you know what you’re doing. And given his presence here, it would seem His Lordship has the same concerns.” The surgeon raised a brow at the earl. “I don’t suppose you can convince her to dull her quill?”

  “No,” he answered curtly. “Mrs. Sloane has an iron will. One that refuses to bend to reason.”

  “Reason, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder,” she shot back.

  “Hmmph.”

  Wrexford wasn’t sure whether Henning’s snort signaled disapproval or amusement at her stubbornness.

  “Yes, well, unfortunately death leaves no room for interpretation, Mrs. Sloane,” replied the earl. “Crossing your pen with a murderer’s blade was a reckless move.” Seeing a protest form on her lips, he quickly added, “And spare me the platitude about the pen being mightier than the sword. Let the idiot who said such drivel try walking through the stews of London at night.”

  “I can’t match the miscreants in physical strength or lordly influence, so I fight with the weapons I have.”

  “As I have taken pains to point out, there is a third option,” said Wrexford. “You may leave the fight to me.”

  Charlotte turned her back, an answer more eloquent than words. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked of Henning. An offer that had not been made to him, noted the earl.

  “Nay, I’ll not be troubling you for social niceties.” The surgeon set a slim book on the table. “I simply stopped by to drop off a book.”

  Wrexford had a feeling that despite Henning’s prickly demeanor, he felt protective of the young widow.

  “I remembered it last night, and thought it may be of use to you,” continued the surgeon. “It’s the text of a lecture given at the University of St. Andrews by Edward Charles Howard a number of years ago. In it he discusses the work of the early chemists, like Newton and Boyle, and the transition from alchemy to a more disciplined approach to science.”

  “Howard—the Duke of Norfolk’s younger brother?” asked Wrexford. “He was an early member of the Royal Society, wasn’t he?”

  “Aye. Along with Banks and Rumford, he helped to pioneer a respect for science in this country. He’s a brilliant chemist in his own right. If I recall correctly, he won the Copley Medal at the turn of the century for his work with mercury.”

  Wrexford straightened from his slouch against the doorway. He had forgotten that. His gaze shifted to Charlotte and their eyes locked for an instant before he moved to the table. “Indeed? Might I have a look?”

  Henning picked up the book and tossed it over. “I’ve only a rudimentary knowledge of chemistry, so he loses me in his later ramblings. However, the first part on the ancient practitioners and their interest in mercury might interest Mrs. Sloane. There are several engravings showing the arcane symbols.”

  “Mrs. Sloane has already made momentous progress in deciphering the art of alchemy. In fact, she’s identified the drawing on Drummond’s hand. It’s a dragon—which is the symbol of mercury.”

  The surgeon let out a low whistle.

  “His Lordship has made some interesting discoveries as well,” offered Charlotte. “He discovered papers in Drummond’s laboratory that warn of evil brewing within the Royal Institution.”

  Wrexford quickly explained about the charred fragments of writing and his interpretation of their meaning.

  “You think Drummond’s accusations are credible?” asked Henning.

  “The man was murdered,” he pointed out. “And we’ve also uncovered a connection between Reverend Holworthy, Canaday, and a batch of rare books on alchemy.”

  “Well, that certainly tosses a few more ingredients into the bubbling crucible,” observed the surgeon. “Tell me more.”

  Charlotte, who had been drawing random images on her sketchpad, looked up, a troubled expression clouding her eyes.

  Wrexford felt a pinch of guilt. At this moment, she must be feeling as if her carefully constructed world was in danger of crumbling into dust.

  His own life was, he supposed, hanging in the balance, but he hadn’t spent any time worrying over the vagaries of Chance. A certain sense of fatality, perhaps. Or, more likely, a casual confidence that Lady Luck, who had always been sweet on him, wouldn’t withdraw her favors quite yet.

  He watched the subtle play of emotions on Charlotte’s features as she stared into the shadows. Then again, the heart of it was that he didn’t really care enough about anything to feel as deeply as she did. Sheffield, in a moment of alcohol-induced honesty, had accused him of using detachment as a defense.

  You hide behind a facade of devil-may-care indifference, Wrex.

  Was it true? Wrexford quickly dismissed the thought. Let Byron and his fellow poets plumb the depths of regret and despair. He wasn’t much interested in introspection.

  And while he admired Mrs. Sloane’s passionate belief that truth and justice mattered, he wondered whether she had fully realized until now that passions always come with a price.

  Or whether she was truly willing to pay it.

  Death had a way of bringing out secrets. The revelation of A. J. Quill’s true identity would end her life as she knew it.

  Henning cleared his throat with a cough, drawing Wrexford out of his musing.

  “Mrs. Sloane found evidence that Holworthy had a book on alchemy with him when he was murdered,” he answered, and then went on to give a summary of what they had pieced together so far.

  Listening to his own words only amplified his frustrations with the investigation. For an instant, he was bedeviled by the sensation that in spite of all the discoveries, the shadows still had no substance. Poof—like vapor, they simply dissolved into nothing as his fingers closed around them.

  Logic, logic, Wrexford reminded himself. Scientific method called for an orderly sequence of steps in orde
r to discover the correct answer.

  “At this point, the next reasonable step seems to concentrate on identifying any of the Institution members who are fair-haired. It may be a wild goose chase, I know, and yet it’s the only solid clue so far.” He paused, feeling another clench of frustration. “It would be enormously helpful if I could ask Lowell, but given his position at the Royal Institution he might feel compelled to inform the Runner.”

  “Lowell?” repeated Henning. “Slender fellow, of average height with auburn hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hadn’t heard that he’d been appointed as a lecturer,” mused Henning. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Davy has a knack for spotting the best minds in the scientific world, and Lowell is a brilliant chemist.”

  Wrexford shook his head. “You’re mistaken,” he replied. “The fellow has no interest in chemistry. His only scientific focus is butterflies, and that’s merely a hobby. As for his position at the Institution, it’s merely administrative.”

  “Nay, it’s you who’s got it argle-bargled, laddie,” insisted the surgeon. “Lowell spent a year in Scotland studying under a good friend of mine. McLachlan’s an odd duck—got himself dismissed from the faculty at St. Andrews University for feuding with the powers-that-be, so he’s now a curmudgeonly recluse who works alone. But he’s still considered a brilliant mind. And he told me that Lowell’s skills in the laboratory bordered on supernatural.”

  If that was true, then Lowell had deliberately lied. “Are you positive?”

  “Aye. Julian Lowell was a veritable wizard when it came to analyzing arcane elements and understanding their potential. I believe he created a new formula for a lucifer match during his time there, which allowed for a flame to be struck under damp conditions.”

  “Ah. Wrong Lowell,” said Wrexford, feeling himself relax. “Our fellow is Declan Lowell, the Marquess of Carnsworth’s younger son.”

  Henning gave a grunt. “Nay, McLachlan’s Lowell certainly didn’t sound like an aristocrat. My friend said he was a strange fellow, with an intensity about his work that bordered on frightening.”

  “And ours is known for his polished charm and easy manner.”

  “Which leaves you still stumbling around in the dark about your Golden One,” observed Henning grimly. He sat on one of the stools and took out his pipe. “D’you mind if I blow a cloud, Mrs. Sloane? It helps me cogitate.”

  She nodded absently.

  A spark flared, and a silvery plume of smoke curled up, only to be quickly swallowed by the gloom.

  A taunt from the cosmos? Wrexford watched another puff rise. However faint, the murderer had left a trail.

  They just had to see it.

  * * *

  Charlotte couldn’t shake off the niggling sensation that a telling clue was hovering just beyond the outer edges of her consciousness. Special books, intricate images, strange phrases—they all seemed to be tangling together, trying to tell her something.

  Uno. With a sinuous whisper, the Latin word for one slowly uncoiled from the amorphous jumble.

  She exhaled a harried sigh. Yes, one thing seemed certain—her life was tumbling to hell in a handbasket.

  The sound drew a swift glance from Wrexford. He, too, looked unsettled. Shadows hung from his dark lashes, accentuating the deep-set hollows under his eyes.

  Unable to sit still, Charlotte rose and began to gather up the sketches lying on her desk and shuffle them into an orderly pile.

  “I’ve asked my friend Sheffield to help with checking what other members of the Institution are fair-haired,” said the earl to the surgeon.

  “You have no other clue as to the identity of ‘Golden One’?” pressed Henning.

  “It may be spitting into the wind, but unless you have any better ideas . . .”

  Their voices blurred to a low hum as Charlotte suddenly set the papers aside and fumbled in the desk’s top compartment for the hidden key. A quick twist unlocked the bottom drawer.

  With the men still deep in discussion, she took out the top book and hurriedly thumbed through the sections. Canaday. Yes, there was the baron’s entry at the top of the page, but she ran her finger down the other entries. Canterfield, Cappell, Carberry . . .

  Carnsworth.

  Charlotte stared at the crest and for several long, painful moments found her lungs refused to draw a breath. Swallowing hard, she made herself read over the entry for the Marquess of Carnsworth twice before looking up.

  “Declan Hervey Julian Lowell,” she announced loudly.

  Wrexford turned. “I beg your pardon?”

  No doubt he thought she had lost her mind.

  Charlotte held up the book. “According to Debrett’s Peerage, the Marquess of Carnsworth’s third son is named Declan Hervey Julian Lowell.”

  Henning coughed on a mouthful of smoke.

  “But that’s not all,” she added, trying to keep her voice steady. “You need to look at this.”

  The earl crouched down by the desk as she put the volume down and turned it to face him. Henning crowded close behind him.

  “Ye god,” muttered Wrexford after careful scrutiny. “At times, I’m tempted to think you have the gift of black magic, Mrs. Sloane. How the devil did you think of that?”

  “It’s not magic, sir. I’m merely following the scientific principle of empirical observation,” explained Charlotte. “I spent some time studying Canaday’s crest, and as you see, this one is on the facing page. It attracted me because it’s rather unusual, and when you mentioned the Golden One, it triggered a connection.” She made a face. “Though it took me a while to figure out what it was.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” said the surgeon, squinting at the page. “What am I missing?”

  Wrexford tapped a finger to the ornate colored crest of the Lowell family. “Look more closely at the quartered shield.” Two sections held a scarlet lion rampant. And two held a large golden numeral one. “Now, let me read you the motto in the fancy scroll—Ab uno disce omnes.”

  “From One, Learn All,” translated Charlotte.

  “Ye god,” said Henning, echoing the earl. “I could have stared at that until Doomsday and not seen it.”

  “I respond to visual images,” she said simply. “I suppose you can say that art gives me a different perception of the world.”

  “And a brilliant one at that,” observed the surgeon. “Kudos to you, lassie.” He looked to the earl and raised his bushy brows. “It seems to me Mrs. Sloane has found your murderer.”

  “Lowell is guilty of something,” said Wrexford slowly. “I’m just not quite sure of what.”

  Puff, puff. A scrim of smoke now hazed the room. “You have the incriminating scrap from Drummond’s laboratory, and it clearly warns that Golden One is concocting some dangerous chemical substance for a nefarious purpose,” pointed out Henning. “Alchemy terms are mentioned, and you know that Holworthy got alchemy books from his cousin, was spotted within the Institution, and then was murdered. And on top of that, I told you about the recent thefts of mercury from a number of apothecaries. The superintendent of the Institution would have intimate knowledge of all the stocks of chemicals throughout London.”

  Wrexham pursed his lips.

  “Ergo,” finished Henning, “it seems a logical deduction that Lowell is the villain.”

  “I doubt Griffin will agree,” countered the earl. “Logical though it may sound to us, it’s still mostly conjecture—and even more telling is the fact that we haven’t a shred of evidence to show what he’s supposedly concocting or how it is to be used.”

  “Show him the charred fragments,” said the surgeon.

  “The charred fragments that I stole from the laboratory?” The earl slowly curled a sardonic smile. “Do you really think the Runner is going to be inclined to take my word for it that I didn’t try to burn them in the first place?”

  “I have to agree with His Lordship,” cut in Charlotte. “You see, the question of guilt is not as
clear-cut as we might wish, Mr. Henning. We’ve discovered another element to the mystery of the murders, and as of yet have not worked out how it fits in. It, too, may involve alchemy.”

  “Alchemy rears its ugly head in yet another guise?” quipped Henning. “Well, well. We’ve certainly got a potent brew of unknown ingredients coming to a boil.” He flicked a bit of ash from his cuff. “Which threaten to transmute Wrexford from a Tulip of the ton to a rotting corpse.”

  “How edifying that my situation serves as a source of amusement to my friends,” said the earl dryly.

  The surgeon shrugged. “One must laugh at the vagaries of Life, laddie.” He blew out a perfect smoke ring and watched it float up to the rafters. “Now, tell me about the other problem.”

  Charlotte looked to the earl, suddenly feeling too weary to explain. She was like a fly caught in a spider’s web, with the delicate filaments inexorably wrapping round and round, their deceptive strength squeezing and squeezing....

  As Wrexford began to tell his friend about the suspected art forgeries and their connection to her husband’s death, she braced her elbows on the desk and pressed her palms to her eyes. Beneath her heat-prickled skin, her blood felt feverish.

  It was I who dared spark the fire, she reminded herself. And fire was an elemental force in alchemy. She had known the ingredients were dangerous—The Ancients were powerful men—and yet she had gone ahead with her print. If Lowell, the son of a marquess, was allied with them, there was no telling what they would do to retaliate.

  And the most likely target was Wrexford. Once a noose was around his neck, the murders would quickly be forgotten.

  A touch to her shoulder drew her out of her chilling thoughts. “You’re pale as a cod’s underbelly, Mrs. Sloane. Take a drink of brandy,” counseled Henning.

  “I don’t have any brandy,” answered Charlotte, feeling the absurd urge to laugh.

  “Ah, but I do.” Taking her hands, he wrapped them around a flask. “Drink,” he commanded.

  She did, and somehow the alchemy of fire mixed with fire was surprisingly comforting.

  “Now, assuming you don’t mean to sit meekly and wait for the noose to loop around your neck,” said Henning to the earl, “what the devil are you going to do next?”